


Razor

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:34:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5305904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tatsuya is still so much an enigma, very much guarded—it’s not so much that he’s crafted this mysterious persona but that he just won’t give anything in the first place, no coy hints as to what he’s hiding, only bits and pieces from secondhand sources or that come out like mistakes that stain and permeate Shuuzou’s mind like spilled coffee.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Razor

**Author's Note:**

> for 12/9 himuniji 2014. originally posted on tumblr. WARNING: semi-graphic imagery of a razor

Tatsuya’s movements are smooth, graceful, feline by daylight, and it’s not that by night they aren’t still captivatingly beautiful and it’s not that they’re rough, per se—it’s like two sides of a double-bladed razor, Shuuzou thinks (it’s the type of analogy that only really works when you’re still half asleep); by day he skims his fingers down the blade and it’s smooth and shiny, but when Tatsuya’s getting up in the middle of the night he’s prone to sloppiness, like running fingers the other way and getting nicked—perhaps not until he bleeds—and no, at this point Shuuzou’s too alert to try and force the comparison anymore, and Tatsuya’s slipping away in the darkness, disentangling their legs further.

“Where you going?” Shuuzou whispers.

Tatsuya pauses, turns—his hair is rumpled and his shirt is half-hanging off one shoulder. “Bathroom.”

Shuuzou leans forward. Is he? Too many times Shuuzou’s woken up to find Tatsuya gone, not even a note or a text message or any kind of courtesy—he stays over a lot but sometimes he leaves before the morning and Shuuzou has lost count of the number of excuses he’s made to his mother (church, out for a run, basketball practice, debate conference, just to name a few) and she’s so rarely home by the time Shuuzou gets up anyway that it’s ridiculous. More often than not Tatsuya leaves, and he always avoids the questions as to why and Shuuzou never presses quite hard enough.

He watches Tatsuya slide off the bed and silently through the bedroom door (yet when he opens it himself it creaks and groans like a dying banshee)—it’s not that he doesn’t want to know where Tatsuya goes or why and how he ends up there, or even why he just won’t stay in the first place (although he’s got a bit of that last part unwound like a tiny knot in the tangle of mysterious yarn that makes up Tatsuya’s motivation). It’s the worry that if he presses too hard, something might break—Tatsuya might break. It’s silly, in a way—Tatsuya can fend off five thugs at once and maybe get a weak sort of bruise on one leg and practice basketball for hours until he looks like he’s about to drop dead and then drag himself home and his will is so strong it almost hurts Shuuzou to think about going against it. And yet, there’s something about Tatsuya that’s very fragile, that makes Shuuzou think that maybe Tatsuya isn’t the razor but the world is the razor, pressing up against him and he has to hold himself so tightly he can barely breathe or else it will slice his skin off—or at least that’s the way Tatsuya sees it.

Dimly, Shuuzou registers the sound of the toilet flushing in the distance. Tatsuya is still so much an enigma, very much guarded—it’s not so much that he’s crafted this mysterious persona but that he just won’t give anything in the first place, no coy hints as to what he’s hiding, only bits and pieces from secondhand sources or that come out like mistakes that stain and permeate Shuuzou’s mind like spilled coffee. It’s difficult when he says one thing, means another, and does a third—it’s difficult but Shuuzou’s beginning to sense a pattern of some sort.

Tatsuya enters the room as quietly as he’d left, footsteps betraying no movement of the carpet fibers, like a mirage. (For a second Shuuzou wonders if he leaves because he’s never really here in the first place, just a specter, too beautiful to be true?) Then he sits down on the edge of the bed and it dips under his weight; his arms are stiff supports and for a couple of seconds it’s as if he’s readying himself for something. Then he swings his legs over and lies down, leaving all too much space between them (even when the bed is this cramped).

Shuuzou shifts closer.

“You’re still awake?” Tatsuya murmurs.

Shuuzou nods.

Tatsuya sighs but doesn’t turn away; his hands open and then close into fists.

He’s the type of person who wants to stay, who wants to ask to stay but is too proud and too illogically afraid of an answer he doesn’t want, of the exposition of anything resembling weakness inside him. Shuuzou wants to tell him that it’s okay to be vulnerable sometimes, that they should be able to trust each other this much after everything—but he can’t do it in those words. If he’s going to get anywhere with Tatsuya, he’s going to have to play by Tatsuya’s rules—at least, the ones he’s managed to decipher. (And all of this mess, all of Tatsuya’s testing and caginess and seeming desire for loneliness will never deter him; he’s in too deep and already loves Tatsuya too much and too freely and sometimes he feels like his teeth hurt from having this much emotion inside of him that he just can’t displace.) Tatsuya gives up on people before he can give them a chance, spends too much time squashing parts of himself to notice the bright things about the world sometimes, withdraws as a preemptive avoidance of pain and risk, holds everything at arm’s length—and yet, he really wants to be wanted. He’ll expand his bubble a little bit if he’s asked nicely enough by the right person. He’ll stay if he’s asked; he’ll stay if he feels wanted and needed (and no matter how much Shuuzou wants and needs him sometimes Tatsuya just doesn’t get it, and that’s probably the most difficult thing about him).

Shuuzou reaches up and brushes the hair out of Tatsuya’s eyes—for once, both are visible in the weak light. Tatsuya doesn’t protest, and Shuuzou moves even closer, lets the hair fall and skims his hand down until it comes to a rest on the small of Tatsuya’s back. He leans in and nuzzles against Tatsuya’s neck.

“Please, stay with me.”

Tatsuya sighs again, more softly this time, and then his body relaxes against Shuuzou’s.


End file.
